


Escaping the Nightmares

by Linguininess



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Hugs/Comfort, M/M, OTP Feels, POV John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sweet Sherlock, otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 22:24:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguininess/pseuds/Linguininess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's nightmares become too much for him to handle alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escaping the Nightmares

I told myself to control the urge to go his room but, once my eyelids closed and the nightmares began something to pulled me to his side.   
  
I shuffled slowly to his door; my body slowed half by hesitation and half by weak legs still involuntarily shaking from the nightmares. My hand reached for the door knob, but I stopped.   
  
 _This is wrong. We are just flat mates. Everyone has warned me about his eccentric nature, his cold, inhuman attitude, and his bohemian lifestyle._    
  
The door knob jiggled and the door crept open, Sherlock appeared with a sheet wrapped haphazardly around his long, wiry figure.   
  
"John,"  
  
His voice felt like a sweet balm pouring over my war-wounds.   
  
His hair was slightly mussed from sleeping, but his eyes were sharp and alert, almost shocked by my sudden appearance at his door in the middle of the night. The piercing blue eyes scanned my body; I could almost see his mind calculating my disheveled appearance:  
  
 _Involuntary tremors, cold sweat, deep wrinkles and bags around the eyes, shoulders rigid, body tense.  
_  
The icy blue eyes met mine and melted. A look crossed his face that I had never seen before, perhaps no one had, a look of deep mental pain and confliction. A long, soft finger tenderly wiped away a bead of sweat from my forehead, my eyes closed in relief. He gently wrapped his arms around me, the sheets draped over both our shoulders. He pulled me closer until there was no space left between us, the tension seeped from my body like the hot tears pouring down my face.   
  
 _They're wrong._  
  
We stood in his doorway for several moments, until my tremors subsided, and we disappeared into his room.

 

The sun crept through the drapes, drowning the cold Sunday morning in sweet, warm light. The soft rays illuminated the dusty hardwood floor of Sherlock's bedroom.   
  
How do I keep ending up here?   
  
I stretched my arms over my head and let out a soft sigh, but there was no answering rustle of sheets next to me. My extended hand met icy, cold sheets.   
  
 _He's gone._  
  
I rolled over to his side and curled into the folds of his sheets, pretending they were his arms cradling me like last night. The arms that settled my night terrors and brought my racing head, firing with memories and flashbacks, back to the soft, milky skin it laid on.   
  
I heard a slight clinking coming from the kitchen, my eyes fluttered open.    
  
As I slid out of bed I expected my blanket-warmed feet to clash with cold morning floor, instead, they met the soft cushy bottoms of my slippers.

_Thank you, Sherlock._    
  
The second I opened the door the scent of crisp bacon, scrambled eggs, and fresh coffee drifted over me, backed by the charred smell of burnt shoes. I found him in the kitchen, his back to me, bent over a skillet of scrambled eggs examining them with his pocket magnifying glass. One glance around the kitchen told me he had been working at least since dawn. The table was cleared of its usual microscopes and chemistry sets, all except for one Erlenmeyer flask filled with fresh plucked flowers. The omnipresent bags of mismatched toes and eyeballs were nowhere to be found, probably stuffed in the fridge with the severed head but, out of sight at least. Sitting by the window was a charred frying pan that looked as if it had been used to fry up yesterday’s laundry.

 Two plates were set at the table; one overfilled with sizzling bacon and various fruits, the other practically empty except for a grapefruit half. Even I could deduce whose plate was whose.

I stepped further into the kitchen, a tile creaked. Sherlock wheeled around with a startled and guilty look on his face as he stuffed his magnifying glass in his pants pocket. He jerked back, grabbed the handle of the skillet, using a pair of socks as an oven mitt, my socks, and sheepishly presented the contents of the pan in my direction.

“Do you, do you think they’re done?” He stuttered.

I walked over to him, neither of us able to meet the other’s eyes. The eggs were a heterogeneous mixture of runny yolk, flakey brown bits, and charred remains from his previous attempts.  

“Yes, yes, they’re quite good,” I answered. I sneaked a glance up at his face and saw a slight smile form on his cat-like lips.

He briskly walked over to my plate and poured the uneatable contents of the pan over the towering pile of bacon. He looked up at me expectedly, our eyes met for the first time that morning.

I cleared my throat, “listen, Sherlock, I’m sorry about last night.”

“You don’t have to explain,” he interrupted.

“No, I really don’t know what came over me,” my voice faltering as I became more flustered. “I promise it won’t,” but his hand on my shoulder interrupted me.

“John,” he stood there, holding me at arm’s length. The simple touch seemed to have even surprised him. After several moments, he cast his eyes down, but kept his hand on my shoulder.

“Lestrade called, I have to go and make sure he doesn’t ruin another crime scene. I should be back.” His eyes met mine, his neck jerked forward slightly, hesitating, finally pecking my cheek before he disappeared out the door in a flash.

My slippered feet were cemented to the cold tile floor. The room seemed to rock slowly in every direction; I felt as if I were in one of Sherlock’s drugged states, teetering between reality and a dream. I reached for my tea, hoping to gain a foothold in reality. Sherlock did not disappoint, the bitter, black liquid was enough for me to sputter and cough back up to the surface of the morning. 


End file.
